


First and Only Priority

by Kitty_KatAllie



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Emissary Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Temporary Amnesia, Whump, Wolf Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-14 18:18:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13013454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitty_KatAllie/pseuds/Kitty_KatAllie
Summary: Stiles is getting really sick of ending up in cellars and bound in chains. Sure, he was "acting Alpha" as well as emissary the past few years, but couldn't the bad guys be a little more creative and kidnap someone else once in a while? This latest time was taking especially long for the Pack to figure out, and the hunters had something sinister (and gross af) up their sleeves.Thank God they called in the cavalry. Too bad Stiles had completely forgotten everything by the time the cavalry arrived...





	First and Only Priority

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bliz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bliz/gifts).



Complications. Life was a series of complications that, while Stiles enjoyed picking them apart, usually meant he had to untangle a _web_ of complications and outright terrors because he was living while supernaturally aware in Beacon Hills. Especially with a misfit, cobbled together pack like theirs somehow inexplicably in charge.

And what did those complications get him?

Here.

In another cellar.

Sighing in boredom as the cold iron around his wrists kept his spark contained like he was some kind of fey.

One day, Deaton would take time to explain that better; why rowan and mountain ash could be bent to his will, but simple iron kept him magically limp. Stiles dragged out the next sigh into a groan while rolling his eyes heavenward (basement-ceiling-ward) and thumping his head against the wall. The basement was little more than a rude concrete box, and his ass was _killing_ him. He was still a bony, lanky sort of guy even at twenty-two and his ass was _not_ made for sitting on concrete this long.

The door above him scraped over the floor, and he was almost too relieved that he’d probably get to stand to be really scared about what was coming. Apprehensive? Well, he wasn’t _actually_ a sociopath, so yeah. But not scared.

If the past five years had taught him anything, the Beacon Hills Pack would come through in the end. No one had died yet– though, _God_ , had they come close too many times. Sooner would be better with the saving thing, though. He’d been stuck in this dank villain cliché of a basement too long. A couple days, maybe?

He struggled to his knees without the use of his arms before the head honcho of these typical meathead hunters stepped into the room. Well, _honcha_. Was honcho a Spanish loan word? Or was it a more recent English slang? … Several days without his Adderall was definitely starting to show. He did not have time to think about the etymology of the word _honcho_. Not when the creepy-ass lady was walking towards him with a very smug, _very_ creepy smile. In her hand was a bundle of cloth. Damp cloth.

_What the hell?_

“If you’re here to offer me a sponge bath, lady, I’ll pass. That’s beyond acceptable villain territory, even for creepy ones like you,” Stiles drawled. Although, he really didn’t think this was about a sponge bath…

“Me, a villain? You still think you’re the hero in this story? I’m sorry, but Campbell was just a little too generous,” the woman said, kneeling in front of him. The cloth fell to the concrete next to him with a gross _plop_!

“Wow, I thought you were just another moron with a gun fetish. You’re a _well-read_ moron with a gun fetish,” Stiles replied, tone deadpan and dry.

He saw the swing coming, but couldn’t dodge. Taking the right hook to the face with a stoic grunt, he just smirked past his freshly split lip. He wasn’t the sixteen-year-old made of pale skin and fragile bone that geriatric serial killers could push around, and the way the hunter’s eyes pinched at the corners proved it.

“You think you’re some sort of gift to the world, with your furry beasts and death omens at your beck and call. But you’re just a freak. Without a big strong Alpha _animal_ to lead you, you’ll all fall apart.” She gripped his chin with one hand, her fingers digging into his jaw like talons, her breath hot against his face.

“We don’t need an Alpha to kick your asses,” Stiles said shortly. The hunter smiled, slow and confident. It reminded him sickeningly of Kate. It had been _years_ since he’d thought of that psycho.

“You do have something like an Alpha, though, don’t you? It’s been _you_ , Stiles Stilinski, ever since your True Alpha pulled up roots and abandoned you all for… what was it? Saving puppies and kittens?”

Stiles’ lip curled upward, baring his teeth in a snarl. An instinctive reaction he’d picked up from spending too much time with Erica. Talking about Scott hadn’t stopped feeling like poking at an open wound, no matter how many Skype calls they shared. Or how many times he told himself it didn’t hurt.

“We take you out of the picture and the Beacon Hills Pack all fall down. No amount of king’s men will put you back together again, _Stiles_.”

“That literary reference wasn’t half as impressive as the last one.”

The force behind her knuckles was hard enough to whip his head around and smack into the wall.

“Son of a _bitch_ ,” he hissed, ears ringing and head pounding. He glared through his wince. “You’re just a fucking hypocrite like every other bloodthirsty asshole hunter. I’m a _human_ , you dickspit.”

“That’s debatable, really,” the hunter replied with a one-shoulder shrug. “But I’m not going to kill you. I wouldn’t want to disappoint you.”

Bewilderment contorted his face, pulling at the bruises and scrapes. Her low sly chortle, right on cue like she’d prepared her villain dialogue beforehand, managed to get dread forming in the pit of his stomach.

“Like I said, you’re more than just an emissary. All the things that make you a special little snowflake are what make you such a pain in everyone’s ass. Killing you would be easier, true, but taking everything that makes you _you_ away, that’s so much sweeter.”

A cold shudder ran down his spine, but she couldn’t have some trapped demon ready. The wards he’d so painstakingly created to prevent anything like the nogitsune ever creeping up on them ever again would have warned him. Instead of taking out some strange arcane box or token, she picked up that weird damp bundle of cloth and unwrapped it almost leisurely. As if she had all the time in the world. When Stiles finally caught sight of what was inside, his bewilderment from a moment ago returned. Although a bit of something niggled at the back of his mind, Stiles could not for the life of him remember what the hell _moss_ had to with anything.

“Wow. Scary. The shit that grows under the garage sink.”

“Someone hasn’t been studying. Too busy playing fetch with your pets?” the hunter taunted, carefully not touching the moss in her hands directly.

Stiles put on an overly pensive grimace, eyes rolling up and head nodding slightly. “I get it now. _That’s_ why dog jokes are so fucking ann– _unf_ ,” he grunted mid-word as his back slammed against the wall from the hunter’s open palm shoving his chest with all her weight.

The moss splatted against his shoulder and the wall, her breath fanning hot and humid over his face again as she hissed, “I’m going to take everything away from you. Your worthless _pack_ , your father, your life, your _spark_ , will be taken from you.”

“You aren’t the first monster to say that,” Stiles spat, his grimace becoming outright disgusted as slimy liquid he _really_ hoped was water soaked through his plaid shirt and the thermal henley underneath.

“I’ll be the last,” she promised. She moved her hand away and dropped the revolting linen cloth to the ground.

Stiles wrenched open his mouth again, body leaning forward instinctively only to be inexplicably yanked back. A wordless huff escaped instead, his attention turning to the moss on his shoulder. His eyes widened, horror twisting in his guts, as the moss inched sinisterly over his collarbone and down his bicep. His whole body recoiled uselessly, a terrified, yowling shout escaping him. The moss held fast.

“Holy _shit! What the fuck is this_ ?!” Stiles bellowed. His heart thudded painfully against the back of his breastbone, chest heaving too quick and shallow to get enough air. Within minutes he’d be in the middle of the panic attack and he could _not_ afford that right now.

The hunter just laughed loudly and headed back up the staircase.

“Fuck you, you murdering psycho!” The door slammed shut and Stiles strained against the cuffs and the freakishly strong clutch of the moss. His breathing still hadn’t evened out and a fine tremor was working its way down his numbing arms. “Fuck fuck _fuck._ ”

It was spreading too fast, gaining in weight and thickness, his vision spotting erratically as it grew down his arm and across his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut, mouth screwed up in concentration as he desperately ignored how it slimed its way up his throat.

“The fuckety _fuck_ is a sentient moss? Think, Stilinski, fucking _think_. What did she say? It’ll take… my spark, my everything– What’s everyth–?” He froze, a page of the bestiary flickering like an image of a monitor too far away. A thing that took someone’s identity, a _magical_ someone’s identity… “O-obli… a what?” he muttered under his breath. Hadn’t he just remembered something? Wait… what was the disgusting sentient moss supposed to do? “It’ll take something…”

Moss tickled the edge of his mouth and he shouted wordlessly, jerking his head away. His arms _screamed_ in his sockets and iron cut into his wrists, breaking through the tender skin. The ticklish damp trickles down his hands burned, but the rest of him was so damn cold.

 

* * *

 

…Why was he here? Why couldn’t he move his arms?

Actually, he could barely _feel_ them. He was cold enough to shiver, but he was hanging limply from a wall. Held up by the painful cuffs on his wrists and… was it a blanket on him? Why was he so cold if he had such a heavy blanket on him?

Voices broke through his thoughts. Harsh, biting words muffled by what seemed like distance.

But when he opened his eyes, the figures were within kicking distance. They were too blurry to make out– the looming, dark, indistinct forms with angry voices.

His chin fell, eyes already slipping shut, back into blessed darkness. His lap, his chest, his legs, every bit of him he could see was covered in a thick, blackish pelt. No… that was… moss?

 

* * *

 

There was a very large, very pissed off animal somewhere close by. In the back of his mind, a voice screamed at him to get away. It wasn’t attacking him yet, but it could at any second change its mind. Every hair on his body stood up and he could have sworn he felt the shock of electricity pass him, like a stripped wire hovering over his skin. It was followed by a pained, wet-sounding growl and then a very _human_ curse word oddly slurred.

Startled, his eyes worked sluggishly open, taking too long to notice his head was hanging over his chest and he was staring at his own legs encased in jeans and some kind of thick, black-green covering. Was that… moss growing over him?

Bright red-orange light bloomed, heat washing over him and making him shiver. Why was he freezing and numb? His head jerked around, blurry vision clearing with each heavy blink. He was too stiff to move much more than his head, but he would’ve been frozen in terrified uncomprehending astonishment anyway.

Because the animal and the man were one and the same. Electric blue eyes glowed through the dim and past the fading flames fangs gleamed, bared by a tightly-drawn snarl. His dark hair and thick beard hid most of his face, but not the strangely craggy shape of his forehead and the pinched, high-bridged nose that looked more like a humanized snout. Even odder was the utter lack of eyebrows on that beastly hairy face.

“w-What the fuck?” he whispered.

Those electric eyes turned to him and… was that _relief_ that sagged those broad shoulders and lowered the timbre of his growling?

“’tiles,” the man-beast-thing lisped past fangs too large for a human mouth.

He jerked back at the address, wondering what the fuck that meant, only to cry out in pain. It took a woozy minute to realize his arms were trapped behind his back because he could _barely fucking feel them_. He wasn’t even sure he could move his fingers.

There was a wall-shaking roar– since the walls looked like they were pure concrete that actually said a lot about the hairy-dude’s set of pipes– and he finally caught sight of whatever the man-beast had been slavering at. He really wished he hadn’t as his stomach pitched uncomfortably. It looked like it was made of the same stuff that was currently all over his legs and torso, in fact it _was_ connected by a thin path of itself spreading over the wall. It was also vaguely human-shaped, with weird bulges for eyes and cheekbones, a gaping maw of a mouth, and thin spidery hands that reached for the man-beast to  let loose _fucking lightning._ A thin tendril of it, sure, but _lightning_. It struck the man-beast straight through the chest, his body rippling and his face seriously deforming as if he were struggling to keep hold of… whatever made him more beast than human.

With renewed fervor, beast-man fell upon the soundlessly shrieking moss-monster, ripping into it with jagged claws. He turned away, mouth thinning to keep back the contents of his rebelling stomach. The noises finally stopped, but he couldn’t look. Terrified and unsure which thing he wanted to succeed. A body knelt next to him and he flinched away, sobbing out a breath at the abrupt pain.

“Calm down, Stiles, it’s just me,” rasped a much more human voice.

He peeked out the corner of his eye, past gummy eye-crust and damply clumped lashes, and saw the man-beast wasn’t so beastly anymore. Hell, he was the _opposite_ of beastly. The man was blurred, but he had the same dark hair everywhere– on his head, on his jaw and face, peeking from behind the open buttons at the collar of his shirt, even his eyebrows were thick and dark. The beard was especially fluffy now that fangs weren’t distracting his attention. He vaguely wondered how deep his fingers could sink into that, if he could move his arms… Slowly, the world grew in focus, lines sharpening and colors blooming. That’s when the man turned, his face a mask of worry under smears of mud and blood, eyes so bright greenish-blueish-brownish it hurt to look at him.  

“Whatever you do, keep your arms still. I need to get this shit off you.” Beard-dude’s hand scraped away what was left of the moss, and he felt lighter already. As if there had been a huge weight inside him suddenly lifted away.

“Who’re you?” he asked with a slow frown. “ _What_ are you?”

The man froze, his broad shoulders stiffening under a filthy and rather battered-looking henley. “Are… are you kidding? Because it’s not fucking funny, Stiles. Not now.”

He shook his head, hissing through his teeth at the motion. “What’s a stiles? And what the hell was that thing?”

Something flittered across the man’s face, turning that absurdly pretty face into something terrified, and then _enraged_. Luckily, the man wore the rage well. And it didn’t seemed turned on _him_ , so he just blinked drowsily as Mr. Pretty-and-Bearded got himself under control.

“I’m… I’m getting you out of here. Then, I’m calling Lydia,” the man replied and also answering _nothing._ The proclamation was followed immediately by the crunch and grind of metal tearing apart. His arms fell limply to his sides as an involuntary groan tore out of his throat. Pins and needles worked down his arms and his hands…

His hands looked almost _purple_.

“What’s… what’s wrong with me? Where’m I?” he demanded again. His breath was choppy and short, cutting off when the man’s hand laid softly over his too-swift heartbeat. The man breathed deep and slow, keeping his eyes locked on his even though the man’s body was tight all over with worry, shoulders twitching whenever any sound happened overhead. It felt like hours later, but it was surely only a few moments, when his breathing became as slow and steady as the man’s. Though his heartbeat was likely still twice the pace. The man moved his hands to lay over his wooden, nerveless arms. His hands were burning hot and that pins and needles feeling became _stabbing hot knives_ as he moved his warm hands up and down.

“Can you tell me your name? How old you are? Anything at all?” the man asked quietly, eyes flicking above them.

That distracted him enough that while he hissed and sobbed silently during the man’s vigorous stroking motions on his arms, his mind was a million miles away. There was something about his hands, though, that kept his eyes glued to them as he considered the question.

What did he remember?

Being cold. And uncomfortable. That’s about it.

“No,” he said curtly, sniffling hard and voice hoarse. He looked over to see those brilliant eyes tightening in the corners. His warm, surprisingly soft and smooth hands encased his, chafing life back into the too-dark digits. “Is it Stiles? You were calling _me_ Stiles, weren’t you?” he realized in sudden understanding with widening eyes. “You know me, right? Did you… did _you do this to me_?” He tried to jerk his hand away, but his arm barely even twitched.

“No!” he answered so vehemently, so quickly, but his hands remained gentle on his… _Stiles’_ arms and hands, Stiles couldn’t help but believe him. Even though he scowled in wary suspicion. His captor or not, how’d he end up here, with this man and no memory? The man sighed, the next words wrenched out of him, “I’m Derek. Derek Hale.” Stiles just stared blankly and the man’s shoulders slumped. “I need to get you out of here…”

Fear had his heart rabbiting in his chest. “Yeah, fuck no. I don’t know you, I don’t know _me_ , and I _saw_ you, okay? You’re some kinda monster, and you want me to what? Let you haul me outta here into the unknown?”

Derek’s expression of concern disappeared, his face a stone mask as silence fell. Stiles wondered if Derek could hear the thudding of Stiles’ heart, or if it was just in his head. He wasn’t even sure if he _was_ Stiles. Was he supposed to take it on faith this monster-guy was actually here to help him?

“Is staying here any better?” Derek finally asked in return. Those fantastically expressive eyebrows were rising in judgement at him. Stiles scowled and rubbed his hands together petulantly. “We should get out of here quickly. It might wake up again,” Derek said, giving the bundle a concerned look.

Stiles stared over at it, remembering that thing’s outstretched hands and silent screaming. Hands. _Hands_. His breath knotted in his throat and he woodenly looked down to see his limp, skinny hands lying on the concrete and realized how familiar they suddenly looked. That thing had had his _hands_.

“I’m gonna be sick.” He barely managed to flop onto his side before throwing up bile, apparently not enough in his stomach to vomit anything else, his whole body heaving and an overpowering thirst scratching at his esophagus. Those warm hands came back and Stiles tried to skitter away on instinct, hindbrain screaming _predator predator_ , but he couldn’t get far. He slumped to the ground, sobbing without tears at the pain in his arms and just… _fear_. That thing had had his _body_ and he was trapped in a windowless concrete room with a monster told in story books.

“It’s gonna be okay, Stiles. I promise, it’s okay,” Derek murmured, very non-monster-like, hands gentle and voice wound tight.

Despite the fear, and the bile burning his throat, the excruciating pain in his arms was ebbing away into nothing. No pain was good, _so so good_. He was loopy with the lack of it. Slowly, cautiously, he twisted onto his side to stare at Derek’s hands on him. Only to see black lines crawling up his arms. “The _fuck_.” It gasped out of him, but he couldn’t move. Because that black stuff was seeping _out_ of him, _into_ Derek, and Derek’s mouth was a thin white line. From pain. From _Stiles’_ pain.

It seemed like forever before he managed to control his breathing again, and Stiles shifted awkwardly, his hip starting to ache where it was pinned to the hard ground. “A question,” he croaked.

“...”

“If you move your hands, will it hurt again?”

In answer, Derek slowly pulled his hands away. The spidery lines on his arms were more grey than black now, and Stiles whimpered only a moment at the sheer discomfort his whole body felt. Derek got to his feet and wiped his hands on his denim-clad thighs before walking over to where the thing that tried to kill them was lying innocuous and damp on the ground. Stiles sat up, wincing and groaning, and watched.

“Another question.”

Derek didn’t even look over, just squatted over the singed and shredded moss to peer at it. “If you must.”

“Yeah, I must. _What’s going on_!?” Stiles exclaimed, upper body jerking awkwardly when he tried to use his arms.

Derek scowled, then dragged hand through his hair and huffed through his nose. “I know you don’t trust me, but you need me to survive.”

Stiles squinted suspiciously at him. That… that wasn’t exactly untrue…

“You are my first and _only_ priority, Stiles. Trust me enough to get you safely out of here, that’s all I’m asking,” Derek offered, spreading his hands in supplication and with eyes too earnest for Stiles not to waver a _little_. “You’ll get your answers once I get you safe.”

“Fuck. Fine. But only if you tell me what the hell was with the face and the eyebrows? Are you like a vampire or something?” Stiles asked. Derek scoffed and shook his head.

“Really? Vampire? It’s _werewolf_ ,” Derek replied, eyes flashing electric blue. Stiles jumped slightly, scowling at Derek’s soft chuckles.

“Sure, all right. That fits with the whole... scowly and furry vibe you’ve got going on. Werewolf, huh. Sourwolf,” he grinned as he said it, almost missing the startled look on Derek’s face.

Stiles grunted as he maneuvered himself to his feet. His arms trembled under his weight, but he managed to stand and stay standing. When he almost lost balance thanks to his arms hanging so limply, Derek was suddenly _there_ with a hand on Stiles’ back. An anchor that steadied him easily. He grunted out a ‘thanks’, but Derek just led him up the stairs.

Above the cellar was a… hunting cabin? It was definitely rough, with nothing much in the way of comfort. The main areas, much of the floor and counters, were mostly wiped clean, but everything else had a thick layer of dust and the windows– where the glass hadn’t been smashed– were too grimy to see through. Derek led him out the front door, his body tense and eyes darting around at the forest that was surrounding the shitty little shack. Abruptly, his hand snatched the back of Stiles’ shirt as he crouched, eyes flashing and growl filling up the darkness around them. Stiles flailed back, hissing at the too fast and too wide motions of his arms. He wrapped his arms around his waist to hold them in place and watched as a woman stepped out of the trees. Her eyes gleamed wild and white in the moonlight, her dark hair a rat’s nest and her clothes and skin matted with dirt and blood. Worst of all was the sawed-off shotgun she lifted with one arm and tucked close to her side. Her other arm was hanging limply while thick, pitch-hued liquid dripped to the ground from her fingers.

Stiles’ stomach roiled again and he barely kept from gagging.

“You’re not going anywhere. He’s as good as useless, Hale,” the woman snarled. “You’re gonna die for this empty shell you left behind five years ago?”

The growl changed and Stiles whipped around to stare, as something about Derek’s other face looked even more bestial than the last time. The bones in his face and hands looked like they were… _moving_ , his beard somehow spreading down his throat and over his forehead.

“Run, Stiles.”

“Wh–”

Derek threw back his head and _roared_. A sound that had Stiles turning and racing away, sneakers slipping over rotting wood and autumn leaves. A gunshot rang and a _howl_ , an actual fucking _howl_ , followed that shook the ground under Stiles’ pounding feet. He barrelled past trees, panting and wheezing so loud he could barely hear the noises behind him. There was a hoarse scream that just as abruptly cut off. Stiles looked back, horrorstruck, only for his sneakers to slide too far on the wet leaves. He fell with a short, surprised shout, unthinkingly throwing out his hands to catch himself.

The pain that wracked through his arms had him screaming, too. Then his eyes rolled back and he sank into blackness to the sound of another howl.

 

* * *

 

“…couldn’t you find him?”

“It’s just been too long, sir. Maybe Mal could’ve if she’d come down with me from Sac, but I… I don’t even have a pack now.”

Stiles frowned at the voices. They sounded exhausted, the older, deeper voice almost bitterly so. The second sounded younger and guilty. But neither were familiar. Neither were _Derek_. There was a soft mattress under him and a scratchy but beautifully warm blanket over him. Under the quiet, tired, male voices was the rhythmic beeping of machinery.

“D-Derek?” Stiles croaked before he even opened his eyes.

_You’re my first and only priority. Trust me enough to get you safely out of here, that’s all I’m asking._

“Derek?” he asked again, louder and more forceful, eyes blinking open to the low light of dawn creeping through a nearby window.

Before he could struggle to sit upright with both arms pinned across his torso, two strong hands were helping him sit up with a low _‘easy, easy does it, son_ ’. Stiles glanced up to see an older man, with fair hair going grey and light blue eyes, his face lined with fatigue even as an encouraging smile lit up his face. The the other man _was_ much younger, with dark hair, eyes, and tanned skin. His hair was just long enough to curl at the edges and his uneven jaw made his tiny smile winsome and endearing.

Both were completely and utterly unfamiliar.

“Where’s Derek? Is he okay? Is he dead?” Stiles demanded, trying to grab at the older man, only to shout in frustration at the slings he now saw his arms were in. Despite the ache and stabbing needles of pain, he wrestled to get them off, ignoring both men’s protests.

“Get off me! Where’s Derek? Where the hell is he?” Stiles shouted, shoving them and their helping hands away. When his one hand smacked the younger man in the chest, Stiles immediately recoiled, cradling his arm to his chest. “Are you made of _brick_? Where the fuck’s Derek?”

“Derek’s fine, Stiles. He’s _fine_ ,” the blonde man rushed to assure him. Stiles narrowed his eyes, easing the needle in the back of his hand out and pressing his thumb to it. The younger man’s nostrils flared, brows lowering in confusion. The man kept talking, looking pained and desperate, “He’s trying to help with Lydia–” Stiles quickly interrupted,

“Lydia?”

“Yes, Lydia! You remember Lydia?” the younger man asked excitedly, traces of worried confusion gone.

“No.” Stiles bit the word out venomously. “I don’t know any of you. I know _Derek_. _Derek_ promised he get me somewhere safe. There’s no way he left me with you. You’re lying.”

“Stiles, son, wai–” the man tried to say, only to break off into a winded grunt when Stiles kicked him in the chest. He all but scrambled over him, eyes searching out and finding a door just a few feet away. His feet were bare and the hospital gown was barely better than paper, but fuck if he was staying here when Derek could be bleeding out somewhere. Stiles was safe, but _where was Derek_?

“Stiles, damn it, calm down!” yelled a voice just before vise-like arms wrapped around him and lifted him effortlessly off his feet. “We’re not going to hurt you and we’re not lying. He’s fine!”

“Fuck you! I want to see him, I want to see Derek! There’s no way he left me here! That crazy bitch in the woods has him, or he’s dying somewhere! Let me go, you shit-eating freak of fucking nature, how are you so fucking strong?” Stiles shouted even as he wriggled and flailed and kicked with all his might.

It literally had zero impact as the young man just grimaced and flung Stiles back onto the bed, pressing his hand down on Stiles’ chest. Just one arm could keep Stiles pinned in place and he bellowed in wordless fury, still trying to kick at the man’s face with his bare feet as his nails clawed into the stranger’s arm.

“What is happening in here?” another stranger exclaimed. The two men looked back towards the door. Stiles gasped and wheezed, his heart beating too fast and the noises around him echoing and distant. Last time, Derek had been there, his warm hand an anchor to pull him back. This stranger’s hand was a weight, keeping him imprisoned and helpless.

“–reported to the doctor immediately–”

“–ry sorry, ma’am–”

“–an attack! He’s hyperventilating! Stiles–”

“I’m getting Derek.”

Darkness fell again as a woman stuck a needle in his arm and the blonde man brushed a shaking hand over Stiles' hair. The heartbreak on his face would’ve made Stiles feel a little guilty, if he weren’t already two feet under.

 

* * *

Stiles woke again, mouth dry and head feeling muzzy and cottony. His heart rate picked up slightly seeing the white ceiling above him, but when he turned, he froze in surprise. Next to him, slumped over and neck very painfully positioned against the back of the chair, was Derek. Whole and healthy, in filthy clothes and not a scratch on him. In the late afternoon light, he looked a lot more real than the scowly man-beast of that night. However long ago it was. Stiles honestly had no idea how long he’d been sleeping either time. He slowly sank against the pillows, eyes glued to Derek’s rising and falling chest. A shiver of awareness travelled down Derek’s body, first his fingers, then his shoulders twitching. He snuffled a little, mouth smacking, and Stiles snorted quietly at the childish gesture. Finally, his eyes blinked open and, _hell,_ had his eyelashes been that long this whole time?

Stiles smirked crookedly when Derek sleepily met his eyes.

“Stiles!” Derek almost jerked out of the chair and Stiles laughed aloud.

“You’re a complete dork. Aren’t creatures of the night supposed to be scary?”

“I don’t only turn into a wolf at night, so your knowledge is a little out of date,” Derek retorted a little sharply, a flush building under his beard.

Stiles’ laughter cut off, mouth thinning as he looked away. “Yeah, I guess it is. Those guys… that were here earlier…?”

Derek shifted awkwardly, his eyes glancing towards the closed door. Stiles had a sneaking suspicious they were both out there. “Yeah, they know you. They’re the ones that called me to find you.”

Stiles struggled to sit up, Derek leaping forward to help. He huffed as he finally managed to sit up like a real boy. “Who are they?” he asked hoarsely, staring at his arms where they crossed his chest in the slings again.

“Stiles, don’t do that. You were attacked by a monster that ingests your memories. Don’t blame yourself for that,” Derek said earnestly. “Surprised you were that worried about _me_ , though,” he added a moment later, as if trying to inject some lightness.

Stiles looked up utterly serious. “You kept your promise. You’re an asshole for leaving me here, but you got me to safety, didn’t you?”

Derek clasped his hands between his knees, head ducking silently.

“I trust you, sourwolf. Dumbassery and all. And you’re the only one… the only one I’ve got,” Stiles said thickly. Derek’s head jerked up, astonishment writ clear across his features, mouth slack. “So you can’t just leave me like that again, got it?”

“Yeah… yeah, I got it,” Derek whispered softly. He cleared his throat and then leaned down to pick up… a Wal-mart bag. Of all things, a _Wal-Mart bag_. “I got this, too.”

“Is it a pair of pants so I can get outta here?” Stiles asked incredulously, eyebrows rising. Derek chuckled and shook his head.

“No, it’s that crap that kept attacking us in the cellar.”

Stiles’ heels skidded and slid over cotton sheets as he threw himself away from Derek. “What the fuck are you doing with that?”

“Whoa, calm down, or the doctors will come back,” Derek said, holding up one hand and keeping the bag away from the bed. Stiles licked his lips, eyes darting between the bag and Derek in apprehension. “This thing is called an obliviax. I was only gone long enough to meet with Lydia so she could confirm what it was and if we had enough of it.”

“Enough for what?” he asked, still squinting suspiciously but not trying to run away.

Derek slowly dropped his hand as Stiles relaxed. “It’s a magic eater. It preys on wizards and witches, anything with magic really, and it eats their memories at the same time.”

“Like collateral damage,” Stiles said, eyes now glued to the bag still hanging there. “You're saying… are you saying I’m a _wizard_?”

“Something pretty close to it. A spark training to be an emissary. Though, what I hear from the pack is that you’ve surpassed what Deaton could teach you a while back.” Stiles glared at him and the name-drop that meant nothing. Derek smirked sheepishly.

“All right, so we know what it is, and why I don’t remember anything. Now get rid of the fucking thing,” Stiles said, spitting out the words fiercely.

“No, you need it, Stiles. As long as there’s enough left of the obliviax, you can just…” Derek paused here, grimacing slightly. “Ingest it all back again.”

Silence reigned for a minute.

“You want me to _eat that thing_?” Stiles shrilled, disgust pulling his mouth in several different directions.

“Lydia swore it would work. Your family, your pack, all your knowledge, even your spark. It’ll take a while for you to be a hundred percent, but you’ll be back to yourself within minutes.”

Stiles could _feel_ the snarling grimace that the thought of eating that _thing_ made on his face. “Minutes?”

“Minutes after finishing eating, there’ll be enough of you back to remember who you are.”

“You’re such an asshole. Fine, can I smother it in ketchup or something? Do I like ketchup?” Stiles asked, struggling to reach for the bag.

Derek got up quickly and sat on the edge of the bed. He set the bag in Stiles’ hands, and Stiles swallowed thickly.

“You finish it and I’ll buy you an entire bucket of curly fries to get rid of the taste,” Derek swore.

“And curly fries… I like them?” Stiles clarified, wrinkling his nose as he opened the plastic bag and saw the moist lump of henley inside.

“Yes, definitely. And Reese’s.”

“Fine. Can I take back the trusting you schtick?” he muttered. He took a quick, deep breath and pulled out the lump of _stuff_. He unwrapped it gingerly, gagging slightly at the smell and each time the disgusting thing clung to his fingers. Trying to keep _eating his memories_. What was left of them. What was left of that spark he apparently had. He looked up at Derek. “I would appreciate you _not_ staring at me while I do this, creeperwolf.”

“I’ll… I’ll be outside with your– with the Sheriff and Scott. But first,” Derek paused, then cupped his hand around the back of Stiles’ head. He pressed his forehead to Stiles’ and sighed roughly. “I’m sorry I left.”

“Yeah, not good enough,” Stiles said. He reached up to grasp Derek’s shirt, yanking him down with a small wince. Derek grunted softly, letting Stiles drag him closer, only to freeze as Stiles brushed his mouth over Derek’s. Soft, hesitant, and lingering until Stiles finally pulled away. “Just in case I can’t do that later.”

Their gazes caught and held. Stiles had no memories to speak of, and maybe that guy out there might end up being his boyfriend, maybe Lydia was his wife, but in this moment, Stiles hoped that he and Derek could do that again. With all his memories and baggage attached. Surely there had to have been something there before. Something that made sense of Derek’s promise that Stiles was his first and only priority. Something that made sense of how easily Stiles trusted someone who turned into a B-movie monster at will.

Stiles slowly dropped his hand and looked down at the moss that was pulsing grossly.

“See you in minutes,” Stiles whispered.

“Y-yeah.”

Derek clomped out of the room, the door snicking quietly closed.

 

The door opened again fifteen minutes later. John, Scott, and Derek all hurried to their feet. The time had whittled away agonizingly slow, the two ‘wolves in the room carefully not listening too closely to the disgusted groans and exclamations behind the closed door. Now, Stiles was leaning in the doorway, face pale and green, body shaking all over.

“Someone owes me curly fries,” Stiles gasped. He raised his eyes to meet John’s and his lips trembled upwards at the corners. “Hey, Dad. Sorry about that.”

“Oh, thank god, Stiles,” John said it on a breath, already striding across the hallway to wrap Stiles in a body-crushing hug. Stiles pressed his face to his dad’s shoulder, nose and eyes stinging and hands awkwardly clutching at the front of his dad’s shirt.

“I’ll call the others,” Scott offered, clapping Derek’s back. They exchanged a look and Scott smiled gratefully. “We couldn’t have done this without you, you know that. I know South America’s done you good, and I’d be a hypocrite since I left for Davis, too, but… maybe you should think about coming back. ‘Cause some people need you here,” Scott said, his significant glance now on Stiles and his dad.

Derek remained silent, contemplative, hands in his jacket pockets.

“He can’t be Alpha and emissary, and Lydia can’t make the kind of connection to the pack that an Alpha needs, not with her banshee powers mucking it up.”

Derek sighed quietly and turned away. “I have curly fries to buy.”

Scott watched Derek go until Stiles called him over.

 

* * *

 

“Lyds, is honcho from Spanish?” Stiles asked abruptly. Lydia raised a cool, incredulous eyebrow. “What! It just sorta popped into my head ever since I ate that sh- _thing_ and now I _need_ to know.”

“‘Unca ‘diles, you’re ‘pposed to pay ‘tenttion!” scolded Kirnon from her perch on Boyd’s lap. She had a wild mop of curls and Boyd’s eyes, but everything else was almost carbon copy Kira, who was sitting on the bed next to Stiles’ knee and trying with just enough success to not laugh.

“Sorry, sorry, sparkles. Show me the thing,” he said hurriedly. She huffed and held up her hands.

A knock on the door just a second later had everyone looking up from the little girl proudly showing off to Stiles how she could make itty-bitty claws curl out from her fingertips. Melissa poked her head in and smiled fondly.

“It’s time to go. All five of you shouldn’t be visiting all at once, anyway,” Melissa said mock sternly. Lydia rolled her eyes, Stiles a second behind her.

Allison wheeled close enough to reach around Boyd and pat Stiles’ arm. “Do you need anything else today, Stiles?”

“To go _home_ ,” Stiles whined. There was a collection of eyerolls and chuckles while Kirnon climbed from Boyd’s lap onto Stiles’. “Hey, sparkles, you won’t leave me, right?”

“No way!” she agreed, snuggling in close. Her chubby cheek– that was somehow sticky, how!?– scenting against his collarbone and throat.

“I guess you can stay and get some jiggly gross orange jello for dinner, but we were going to make Daddy’s famous spaghetti tonight…” Kira trailed off thoughtfully. Kirnon gasped loudly, wrenching away from Stiles. He glared at Boyd and Kira, especially Boyd who was smirking smugly, as her warm palms patted his cheeks.

“Sorry, ‘diles, but it’s s’ghetti night!” Kirnon said (heartlessly!) before raising her arms to her dad to pick her up when he stood.

“Yeah, Stiles. Spaghetti night,” Boyd said, snorting in amusement when Stiles flipped him the bird where Kirnon couldn’t see.

Kira swooped down to kiss his cheek and wink. “Also, honcho is Japanese. If you’re lucky, I won’t tell my mom on you.”

“Aw, sh-dam- _darn_ , I should’ve known that,” Stiles stammered haplessly. He was normally better at avoiding curses, but he was still slow and bumbling from morphine. Kira and Allison were both laughing at him now.

“We’ll come get you tomorrow, Stiles,” Lydia told him, ignoring his tragic face too easily. She helped turn Allison’s chair around, then set her hand automatically on Allison’s shoulder so they could walk out together.

“Don’t try to escape!” Allison warned cheerfully over her shoulder.

“Oh. He won’t,” Melissa said with a narrowed-eyed glare at Stiles that had him grinning innocently.

They left with waves and kisses blown from an overly enthusiastic Kirnon. Even Melissa went with them, as always intent on spoiling the Pack’s first and only baby every second she got. Stiles rolled his eyes with a huff and stared out the far window. Surprisingly, he didn’t have to wait long for it to swing back open. He startled against the pillows, struggling to sit up and then remembering the handy bed control button. Cora stood awkwardly at the foot of the bed, but Derek immediately sat down in ~~his~~ the chair, hands clasped between his knees.

Cora cleared her throat. “You all right?”

“I’m hanging in there. Just malnutrition and my arms all fucked up. I’ll be good as new in no time.”

She nodded, glanced over at Derek, then back at Stiles. “I came back for Derek, not you. But… I’m glad you’re all right.”

Stiles was actually sincerely touched by that. Last time, he didn’t even remember if Cora had smiled let alone tried to care about others’ emotional well-being. Especially his.

“Thanks, Cora. It’s good to see you, too.”

Cora scoffed. “I’m done. Too many feelings. I’m gonna go find Jackson, so I can punch something. Don’t let him leave until he tells you things,” she said, jabbing her finger at Derek. She turned on her heel and left.

Stiles stared after her, jaw hanging slightly. “Is she always like that?”

“Not as much. It’s… it’s being back here. She’s better down in Argentina. Smiles more,” Derek said with a fond smile of his own. Stiles squirmed, knowing that they’d both be going back, and he’d…

"Thanks," Stiles muttered quickly, before he could let himself spiral into a babbling mess. Derek merely rose his damnedably eloquent eyebrows– the man's eyebrow were more eloquent than his mouth– his mouth using  _words!_ Stiles bit too hard on the edge of the nailbed of his thumb, wincing as he dropped his hand from his mouth. "I know it had to have been a pain in the ass, coming all this way just to replay our old game of Stiles Saving Time. So, uh, thanks."

Derek shrugged, ever the fucking martyr. "I wanted." He stopped, huffed hard through his nose, tried again. "I've been meaning to come back for a while."

The appalled shock that covered Stiles' face had Derek's twisting into a stormy scowl. "Hey, wait, dude, not that I- _we_ wouldn't love to welcome you back with open arms, 'cuz seriously, we've all missed you. We could do with a real Alpha around here again, _really_ , but this place is bad for you, Derek. Don't come back because you think you... I dunno, have to? Have to put yourself on your own cross and hang yourself? You doing you, anyway. Hasn't living with your alpacas in Chile given you any character development at all?"

Derek rolled his eyes heavenward. "We have horses. In  _Argentina_. You know that. And I'm not here to crucify myself, Stiles. "

"Alpacas, horses, tomato, tamahto. Whatever," Stiles replied, flapping a hand negligently and biting back a smirk at Derek's irritation. "Go back, Derek. Don't stay in this shithole with your demons because we need an extra hand now and then. I prefer the cavalry somewhere where the bad guys won't get you and outflank us anyway."

"This isn't a game of Risk," Derek said on a sigh. "I didn't come back because you needed an 'extra hand'. I came back because you needed me and I wanted to come back. I'm not the real Alpha you need, but... maybe I'm enough for now."

"Actually... well, you kinda are," Stiles admitted, ignoring 'you needed me' part and the painful, wistful pang it made behind his ribcage. Because 'you' was obviously the plural variety, not you-specifically-Stiles, and he didn't want to think about that with Derek in the room. Derek's puzzled look was almost as ~~adorable~~ hilarious as his angry one and had Stiles smirking again. "An Alpha spark doesn't _disappear._ You used it to heal your sister, right? So Cora still  _has_ it. If she wanted to, if she'd needed to in the past six years, she could've tapped into it and become the Hale Alpha."

Derek stared, mouth dropping open wide enough to actually show his bunny teeth and eyebrows rising high into his hairline. Stiles snorted and nodded, one hand gesturing through the air. 

"Yup. Baby Hale has been Queen Hale all along. She could stay and reclaim the spark through the Hale land, because it  _is_ still Hale land, with some help from yours truly," He gestured towards himself with a flourish, followed by a wince. "Or, she could give it back. Like your..." Stiles broke off awkwardly. 

But Derek picked it up a second later, his voice soft and awed, "Like my mother would've passed it on to Laura."

Stiles nodded. Derek stared at his lax hands between his knees as if he'd never seen them before. Instead of his old scowl, he looked softer when pensively working through this potentially devastating information, emotionally devastating that is. Especially in the wake of saying his sister's name aloud in that still hushed and reverent way. Silence reigned a long time after that, long enough for Stiles to fidget, picking at his jagged nails and frowning at the very thin line of dirt still under a few of his fingernails. He'd need a good long soak in the bathtub when he got home. Oh God, he should not be thinking of getting naked in a tub with Derek being all contemplative and quiet  _right next to him_. With his sad, thoughtful,  _stupid_ eyes. With that solemn downturn of his stupidly perfect mouth, almost hidden in the dark growth of hair. With that  _stupid fucking_ _beard_. The beard that Stiles now knew felt soft and coarse at once, that he now knew the burn and scrape of against the sides of his mout–

“I’m sorry,” Stiles blurted. Derek jerked his head up, eyebrows rising in question. Stiles groaned, eyes closing in humiliation. Why hadn't Derek just  _left_? Now he had to talk about what he'd hoped could be ignored entirely.  “'m sorry that I kissed you yesterday. I shouldn’t’ve… and I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.”

Stiles looked over at Derek, who was staring back intensely. “What.”

“I’m sorry that you did it without meaning it, but don't think I... I'm angry about it.” The ‘wolf glanced towards the door his sister had just left through and clenched his jaw. “Stiles, I wasn’t lying about you being my priority,” Derek said, slowly but clearly. He met Stiles' eyes and everything, gaze earnest and focused.

“’Cause even five years later, I’m still the idiot getting my ass in trouble. I’m not expecting anything else, whatever my amnesia deluding me into thinking,” Stiles said in a rush under that intense gaze while his face grew hot.

“You’re not listening, Stiles,” Derek said with an eyeroll that had Stiles’ almost smiling it was so nostalgically familiar. “I _mean_ that I came back for _you_.”

“I don’t understand what the hell you’re saying,” Stiles said, hope warring with disbelief. He’d long ago given up on his crush, had cursed his own idiocy for allowing just an hour alone with this man with no memory to somehow end in a confession. Something he hadn’t done when they’d _known_ each other. And now this?

Derek huffed and laced his fingers together. “Before I left, when Kate– I had something like a dream. I was sure it was a nightmare, Kate being back, shooting me. But it was _you_ in my mind that brought me back. That had me face down my worst nightmare and see it for reality. I needed you then, the same way you needed me this time.”

Stiles’ breath caught and he was probably gaping like an unattractive fish when Derek looked up to meet his eyes.

“My anchor stopped being rage almost six years ago. It’s you. It’s been you.”

The breath released in a whoosh and Stiles almost forgot to inhale again. “Are you… are you shitting me right now?”

“No, God, no, why would I do that?” Derek exclaimed, looking pissed.

“Because you _left_ , for five years! You left with Braeden and your sister, and we’ve gotten emails for Christmas and maybe for a birthday here and there from you, and that’s it. Now you’re gonna come outta the blue, save me like a damsel in distress, and tell me I’m _your anchor_. The thing that _keeps you human_? I know what an anchor is, I’ve been living this life long enough to know that it’s not some high school confession, check yes or no, that you’re talking about. So how– _why_ did you leave and not come back?” Stiles asked with fury lacing his words. More because he’d spent years pining over some dude, thinking he’d never come back, never thought about Stiles even once in the years since, and the entire time…

He’d been one of the most important things in Derek’s life. And he wasn’t even _there_ for it.

“Stiles, you were seventeen–”

“Who the fuck cares–”

“You were seventeen, going from one supernatural disaster to the next, and I was a mess,” Derek interrupted, voice rising over Stiles. Stiles’ jaw clicked shut. “I needed to go. I needed to get back to Cora and figure out how to heal and be a family again. It was about finding something in myself I could trust and learn to rely on after almost dying in the dirt in Mexico." Derek stopped once more and ran a hand over his mouth. "As for Braeden... we keep in touch, we're friends, but we were over the moment I got into Central America.”

Stiles started yanking the slings off with muttered curses and winces. Derek got halfway out of his seat, hands hovering in the air to try to help. Before he could figure out how, Stiles got his arms free and grasped Derek’s henley.

“You utter _fail_ wolf. I lost every shred of my memory, but I still trusted _you_. I still fell head over heels for you, you gigantic moron. ” Stiles said as his chest constricted and his heart slammed against his throat. He ignored the startled jerk of Derek’s body under his clenched fists. "If you need to go back to Bolivia and say good-bye to your llamas, then fine."

“It’s Argentina. We have horses.”

“Whatever. Doesn’t matter. Because you’re coming back… you’re going to come back here, okay?” The last word dropped all the confidence of what came before it as Stiles licked his bottom lip and forced a grin. “I’m not seventeen and no one’s dying. Beacon Hills is always gonna be a hellhole, but I’ve got to smell better than a bunch of llamas, right?”

“It’s horses,” Derek muttered, gaze dark and heavy. "Are you sure–"

"Do you remember the board?" 

Derek frowned, eyes darting to Stiles’ mouth and to his eyes. “Board?”

“You’re the king on the board, Derek. The most valuable piece in this complicated mess of a game my life is. ” The forced grin on his face shook, his hands even more so.

Derek's hands fell over Stiles' on his shirt and Stiles’ licked his dry lips again, mouth opening to babble some more defensively. But Derek’s mouth was in the way, slanting over his, hot and damp and fervent. This time, when the world went dark, it was _Derek’s_ heartbeat under _Stiles’_ hands keeping him anchored. With an eager sound, Stiles knelt on the bed and wrapped his arms around Derek’s neck. He buried his hands in the thick curls of his hair, groaning against Derek's lips. The back of his hand tugged awkwardly, but Derek moved with it, leaning closer and sliding his arms around Stiles’ waist to hold him up. There was an edge of desperation, like being thirsty for hours– months, years– and finally having something to drink, but it wasn’t the harsh, biting thing he’d dreamed of as a teen. Derek’s lips were soft and smooth, a startling, head-spinning contrast to the rasping of his beard around Stiles’ mouth. Everything about it, about _Derek_ , was warm. Stiles sank into it without hesitation. They broke apart to drag in pants of air, noses brushing.

“So… better than the llamas?” Stiles asked, a little too breathlessly when their half-lidded gazes met.

“Shut up, Stiles.”

Stiles laughed into Derek’s shoulder. It was probably too early for it yet, but he was pretty sure that that meant a completely different set of three words.

**Author's Note:**

> Got the monster idea from [here](http://www.lomion.de/cmm/obliviax.php) It was between this and a Baku. While most of the prompt was from blizgori, my giftee: AU, Canon, Fluff, Angst. Hale/Stilinski family feels, Stiles whump. N/sfw; the plot did not truly come together until I saw this prompt on [homemadesterekpie](https://homemadesterekpie.tumblr.com/)'s blog: i need a fic where Stiles and Derek gets kidnapped and its really ugly and there’s traumatizing shit involved and when they get rescued Stiles wakes up in the hospital and causes a huge scene because Derek isn’t by his side???? and he ends up needing to be sedated because nothing and no one else can calm him down and he’s starting to tug at his IVs and getting up to find Derek himself, yelling at the top of his lungs?????
> 
> Call me a masochist but that’s the kind of angst I’m living for.
> 
> I didn't quite fit either one perfectly, but hopefully good enough??


End file.
